by Damon West
Ed had this idea that my crime spree was not, in fact, the crime in which I was indicted and going to trial for: Engaging in Organized Criminal Activity. He believed this was just a burglary case. Trusting the logic and wisdom of my attorney, I took his advice and pleaded “not guilty” to organized crime.
The organized crime law in Texas has teeth and is intentionally vague, meaning proving a conspiracy between two or more people is not that difficult. Steven and I were the two parties in the law of parties that were constant. To prove this element of their case, the prosecution only had to place one other person in contact with us. This was achieved at trial with nearly a dozen other people in on the conspiracy. They even had one of those awful pyramid organizational flowcharts where I was at the top. An awful, powerful visual for the jury, the victims, the gallery, my parents, and myself.
Ed’s other big idea for trial strategy was something he termed the “Nickel Defense.” That meant that he was going to allow all alleged evidence and testimony into trial without a fight, in order for the jury to have a clearer picture with which to make a decision. This strategy was predicated upon the assumption that the prosecution would only present evidence that was factually accurate. Ask any trial lawyer if this is a sound assumption. It gave me little adversarial participation at trial. His capitulation to let the prosecution run their case generally unopposed was a dangerous weapon in anyone’s hands. Having studied volumes of post-conviction case law, I now know it was antithetical to everything for which the Sixth Amendment of the Constitution stands.
I was an awful person and an awful client. The best trial strategy in the world couldn’t change the fact that in my pursuit of meth, I hurt a lot of people by stealing their property and their sense of security. The evidence against me was overwhelming. Looking back on that time in my life through the lens of recovery and accountability, I realize that my actions alone had me at that defense table. If I didn’t do the things I did, then I would have never been in harm’s way. I would have never been on trial, facing a potential life sentence. Whether or not Ed could have represented me better, making the odds of punishment more fair and consistent with my crime, I alone am responsible for my actions. God, I truly believe now, was running that trial, and He knew a small punishment was not what I needed.
As painful and shocking as receiving a sentence of sixty-five years, a life sentence, was, there is nothing else that was going to get my attention. Nothing focuses the mind like a judge telling you that the Texas Department of Criminal Justice owns you for the rest of your life. That day, May 18, 2009, was my Rock Bottom Day.
I thank God for it now.
CHAPTER 17
Halftime Is Over
Prison Diary
Monday, February 11, 2013
The warden came and met with me today. It appears my time in solitary is coming to an end. After almost a month back here, they lost me. Something about the arresting guard not filing a fight-case the day of the incident. He was genuinely apologetic about the mistake. I laughed and told him it was a blessing to have this time back here alone.
It was the last thing he told me that brought me the greatest relief. Because of the mix-up, the warden was going to let me off with a minor disciplinary instead of a major one. This was unheard of for a fighting case in TDCJ, as all fights are major. This means I will not be punished with medium custody or losing good-time credits towards parole. In fact, his mercy saved me from parole even evaluating this event in my disciplinary history. A true blessing. I signed for the deal as quickly as he gave me the pen.
HALFTIME IS OVER. Very soon the guards will come in here and tell me to pack my belongings for my new cell on 7 Building. It will be 7 Building for sure, because I have about six more months to go before I reach the five-year mark of my time in the life sentence building in prison. Then I will be allowed to live somewhere besides 7 Building. Most likely, I will not be sent to my same pod, as my old cell will have been reassigned. No matter, my reputation follows wherever I go. Whatever pod I end up on, they will know Mayor West. I have earned that.
My time in solitary was well spent, allowing me to finish writing about all of my back story before prison. This is bittersweet, as it confirms that all my experiences to share in the future will be stories behind bars. It reminds me of my dreams.
After only a few months in county jail, I ceased having dreams where I was free. Occasionally during these years in prison, I wake up with a smile on my face because my mind was allowed to parole out of this place while I slept. During these handful of nocturnal adventures, I was usually spending time with my family, which is exactly what I dream about every day when I am awake.
The prison ACTS retreat I attended in 2014 (left side, three rows up, second guy. I’m in white).
Photo credit Dallas P.D. via Dallas Morning News.
My mugshot taken by the Dallas Police Department on July 30, 2008.
TDCJ Prison ID tag.
Prison visit with my parents, 2014; from Grayson’s Facebook page.
Visitation with Grayson, Hudson, and Brandon, November 2012.
CHAPTER 18
Not on My Line
Prison Diary
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Today is a big day for me. It marks five years of incarceration. Five years ago, today, the Dallas Police Department saved my life and rescued me from a world of drugs, crime, and immorality. Had it not been for them, I shudder to think of not only where I would be, but how many more innocent people I would have hurt by now. It may sound a little odd to hear this, but I truly believe the massive sentence of sixty-five years, that life sentence, saved my life.
My journey through prison has been especially complicated because of my classification due to sentencing. Having received a life sentence, I have been required to live in a separate part of the prison. Seven Building is where the lifers are housed on the Stiles Unit, and I have spent my entire prison existence there except for my one-month vacation in solitary. Aside from living in that dreaded building, my sentence prohibits me from working any of the various jobs here. This has been especially frustrating because I want to work, if for no other reason than to get out of the pod every day, keep my mind busy on a task, and experience the feeling of self-worth one finds from being gainfully employed. I have always told anyone who will listen that the greatest rehabilitative program TDCJ has to offer is allowing inmates to get up and go to work every day like a normal person. If you don’t have a job when you get out of prison, you will absolutely be returning to prison. You might as well spend your years in here forming a healthy habit.
FORTUNATELY, THERE ARE OTHER WAYS in which I have been useful. I run a pretty busy free tutoring program for guys in 7 Building who are either studying for the GED exam or taking college classes. Teaching a man in his forties or fifties how to read and write is one of the greatest gifts I can give. I do take some personal pride in helping others achieve education. I love the feeling I get from helping others, especially seeing one of them graduate.
I strive to be that coffee bean Mr. Jackson told me about when we both lived in Dallas County Jail. Humility is my compass today. With a program of recovery in place, I have even learned how to pray. No longer do I pray for things I want or need. Each morning, I get on my knees and pray to my Higher Power for two things:
“God, put in front of me what you need me to do for You.
And please let me recognize it when I see it. Amen.”
Life in prison, although extremely difficult at times, has been easier for me once I finally let go of the things I couldn’t control, which were most things. At an AA meeting, I recently received a clearer understanding of what few things I truly control. The sponsor from the free world who I will call Ray, asked me to lead the Serenity Prayer, and then tell the group what the prayer meant to me. From rote memory, I recited:
“God, grant me the serenity,
to accep
t the things I cannot change,
the courage to change the things I can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.”
Then I spouted off what I thought it meant, something about struggles in life and picking your battles. Ray told me very abruptly that I was wrong, and to sit down. I felt I was handled roughly, but my skin was hard enough that I could mask my emotion.
Ray then went to the chalkboard and drew a line from left to right, all the way across the board. “This,” he said, “represents God’s line. Don’t think of this line being just the width of a chalkboard. This line is more like from one horizon of the Earth to the other. It’s infinitely long. On this line are all the things you can’t touch, Damon. Those things are everything from the first part of the prayer, ‘grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.’ If you touch things on God’s line, you will have problems. Period.”
Ray held his thumb and index finger about an inch apart and erased a small part out of “God’s line.” “This line right here, inside this inch I erased, is your line, Damon. In it are the things God gives you to work on. Do you know what’s on your line?”
Not quite sure, but following his progression, I said, “Things I can change?”
“That’s right, Damon. It’s the second part of the prayer, ‘the courage to change the things I can.’ Let me save you the suspense on what’s inside your line. There are only four things you can change in this world, four things you control,” he said, holding up his fingers in the air. Counting them off, he said, “What you think, what you say, what you feel and, most importantly, what you do. That’s it.”
He wasn’t finished. “Damon, the last part of the prayer is the most important for us addicts. You see, we think we control everything. We have these big egos that tell us we can do whatever we want. When we drink or use drugs, we become the giants of our dreams. The last line says, ‘and the wisdom to know the difference.’ This means knowing the difference between that,” he said, pointing at the long line, God’s line, “and that.” He pointed at the little one-inch line, my line.
He put the chalk down and looked me in the eyes. “Damon, if you only control what you think, say, feel, or do, then why are you constantly worried about the other things you cannot control? Give those things back to God. They’re His anyway. Work on yourself and use your life to do His will. Everything else will take care of itself. You won’t believe how great your life will become.”
Ray’s diagram really hit home with me. When I encounter something that is beyond my control, beyond what I think, say, feel, or do, I say to myself, “Not on my line.” I sometimes worry and obsess, but I try to check myself and ask God to take away my anxieties.
I started this journal entry with, “Today is a big day for me.” Like clockwork, I was called into my U.C.C. hearing to review my custody status. Five years is the minimum time an inmate must serve in the life sentence building. Because I had been a model inmate, the committee voted to let me leave 7 Building. Not only did they move me to the more moderate side of the prison, where the violence is less, and the length of sentences are less severe, they also upgraded me all the way to the dorms. This was an enormous blessing and completely unexpected. Provided I complied with all the rules in TDCJ, I no longer had to live in a two-man cell again.
The dorms have cubicles, which are basically a bunk with a four-foot partition around it. The exchange is privacy for access. I can go into my cubicle anytime I want, day or night, no guard necessary for an in-and-out. No more jacking my doors. No more living with another man in the bunk above me.
My good fortune did not stop with a living upgrade. On my panel was the warden who cut me the slack in the fight case back in February. He reminded me of his kindness during my committee meeting, right before he asked for my help.
“West,” he said, adjusting his glasses, “I have a problem on this unit and I think you’re the man to help me.”
He said he’d watched me for years, and that I’d done an excellent job acclimating to this place and maintaining my dignity along the way. “I’m looking for someone with some moral backbone to run my Unit Supply.”
I was speechless. This was no small job assignment. Unit Supply is the heart of a prison. It is a giant warehouse, where everything comes into and leaves the prison. Everything from paperclips, pens, toilet paper, razors, and soap to tools, cleaning products, lawn mowers, and gasoline came through the back-bay doors. Without a functional Unit Supply, a prison does not operate efficiently.
Unit Supply was also just as important to the inmates. I knew about some of the theft that came out of Unit Supply. The warden outlined the breadth and the scope of the theft operation going on in there, and thousands of dollars in supplies each year were leaving the warehouse, stolen by inmates and sold on the black market, on “the street.” He wanted me to go into the warehouse and clean it up, from the inmates’ side. He needed someone he could trust, and he chose me.
He said that what he was asking of me came with risks. He said I’d be called names like “Warden’s boy, Warden’s bitch, snitch,” and a whole host of other derogatory terms because I’d be effectively shutting down a street business many inmates relied upon. This, he said, also had the obvious risks to my safety because people may feel like “taking you out” to get rid of the impediment in their way.
“Taking you out can come in many different forms,” he said. “Fights, accusations, even planting drugs or stolen property in your cubicle are just a few of the things you will need to be vigilant of.”
My concern was palpable. I asked him: If I got into a fight over the job, or something was planted in my living area, would my position with him be a mitigating factor when punishment was doled out?
“No. You’re in the wind on that one. I can’t step in and help you,” he said quickly.
He said if I accepted this assignment, I’d have to do it as any other inmate would. Of course, he conceded, it would be an enormous deviation from my normal behavior to be caught with drugs or stolen items. “I think any sober and objective observer on my staff would be able to sniff that out. But there are no guarantees.”
He felt this job was different than any other one on the unit and he needed the right person in that position. Aside from my character and integrity I’d shown, he said I had other qualifying credentials. He picked up a folder and read from its contents, noting I had a bachelor’s degree, my computer skills were up to date, and I regularly had money on my books. “I checked out your commissary history. You get visits almost every weekend, and you make tons of phone calls to friends and family.”
He listed off other things he knew about me, like how I participated in recreation, I was involved in every chapel program my schedule could handle and I received lots of mail and books. “In other words, you have a lot to lose inside this institution if you screw up. And, West, I know all about the tutoring operation you run in 7 Building. I think it is great you’ve shared your skills with so many others. Not only that, but those mornings you teach that stock market class are something I’m also aware of.”
He even knew I occasionally purchased food out of the chow hall, and that I regularly subverted the rules to get in the commissary line. He had eyes and ears everywhere, he said. Very little escaped him. “By all accounts, you’re a good and decent person who made some poor choices in life. You’re paying your debt honorably.”
Damn. This guy knew everything about me and still wanted to associate with me. No matter, I had to know something.
“This is a test, isn’t it? If not for you, then for parole. Am I correct?” I asked.
“It’s like this, West. I’m giving you all the rope you’ll need to either hang yourself with or pull yourself out of this place,” he said, waving his hand around the dimly lit meeting room.
With my initial parole interview less than two years away, this was the stick to his carrot. He sai
d the parole board would recognize the responsibilities and temptations of a position like Unit Supply. A reformed thief of good character could handle the temptations, and a reliable and capable worker the responsibility. “It’s not a hammer hanging over your head; it’s a sword.”
I figured as much. Actually, I was counting on it. It’d be just the thing I would need to get parole’s attention and stand out in a sea of life sentences seeking release from bondage. So, I said what I always said to any boss who gave me a difficult assignment.
“Thank you for the opportunity. I’ll get it done.”
“There’s something else I’m curious about that my files and information network won’t tell me,” the warden said, closing the file with my name and inmate number on it.
He wanted to know what had happened to me in life. My file confused him because it didn’t match the person in front of him. He said I stuck out in this place more than any other inmate. He wanted to know how a guy like me ended up with sixty-five years. “Pause for a breath before you answer. I rarely ask inmates this question, so I am interested in your answer.”
Breathing in and out slowly a few times, I said, “Warden, I’ve had every opportunity in life, all the love, support, and talent a kid would need to grow up and be anything he wanted to be. Anything. Addiction is the easy answer as to what happened to me. But it doesn’t fully answer your question.”
